ACTION IN MISSING
by Wynsom
Summary: Companion piece to Missing in Action (a deliberate reversal in title words and perspective): The Derailment from John Watson's POV, in which John discovers, through his action in missing his former life and army career, something important about himself and his civilian life with Sherlock and Mary. (All disclaimers about not owning Sherlock apply.)
1. Chapter 1

**_John Watson is aboard that fateful Tube during the Derailment. _**

**_Chapter 1 The Sixth Carriage: The slow progress of understanding_**

Lights flickered right before it happened—the next instance, great upheaval.

In a burst of fire, the first Tube carriage lurched with unexpected force, tilted then skidded, launching screaming passengers out of their seats. Airborne projectiles of parcels, mobile devices, shoes, and purses—like a 'collider accelerator' of visible objects—were hurled forward.

Lights flickered again, as the first three carriages swayed side-to-side before braking—metal screeching louder than the human wail of terror within—and halted, haphazardly leaning against the tunnel wall, blocking the oncoming tracks.

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When the lights flickered, Dr. John H. Watson had been standing at the Tube pole in the rear of the crowded sixth carriage. His shopping bag of last-minute baby items rested at his feet. Mere seconds before his consciousness comprehended, the former army doctor's reflexes sensed the Tube's disjointed motion. An abrupt change of trajectory wrenched his shoulders—awakening "memories" of his old army wound—with a jolt that nearly lifted his feet off the floor. Whilst the precious pink contents of his shopping bag spilled and slid across the floor, his instinctive response—a tightened grip—prevented him from tumbling forward with them.

In mere seconds, everything had come to an abrupt halt.

"huh?" A collective sigh arose from the entire sixth carriage of 163 passengers.

Once more the lights flickered, followed by sudden and total darkness.

"OoooHHHH!" Worry began as a low moan, like an extensive exhale, but the volume of concern climbed toward a roar of confusion the longer all waited for the lights to return. Wafting through the carriage was a slight smell of acrid smoke, rousing cries of dismay that amplified in panic amid the pitch.

Brightness beamed suddenly from the rear of the carriage. Like moths to the flame, eyes of all passengers in the carriage widened, beholding a solitary man, massaging his left shoulder—his mobile, in flashlight mode, raised for everyone to see.

"Stay calm!" John commanded, wincing away his mild shoulder discomfort, but his words were hardly necessary. Fellow passengers were silenced by his light. Others, already copying his action, turned on their mobile flashlights. Soon, little beacons filled the carriage. The panic had subsided, although fear remained on many faces looking toward him for direction.

"Good. Okay… I am a medical doctor! I want you to check yourselves. Is anyone hurt?" John peered through the dim carriage. "And are any emergency or medically trained personnel onboard?"

"Paramedic!" Waving from the floor, a well-dressed man in a suit and tie grabbed a pole, pulled himself up, and wiped off his dress trousers. He was obviously off duty. "Not hurt!"

"I'm a nurse, an RN!" One woman raised her hand as she crossed over to console an older woman trembling with fear.

"So am I!" said another who was gathering purses, shoes, and sundry items, including several packages of pink baby clothes, off the floor and locating their rightful owners.

"Firefighter—retained." A man came forward from the front of the carriage, walking off a slight limp caused by the jolt.

"Good! Very good!" John acknowledged, accepting the bag of baby items hand delivered by the nurse. "Your names, please."

Quickly, John was introduced to Paramedic Sam (on his way to a cousin's engagement dinner), RN1 Carol (consoling the frightened), RN2 Terri (restoring the lost items), along with Firefighter Dan (disregarding the pain of a throbbing knee). Collaborating as a team, they immediately agreed to both assess the injured and plan evacuation procedures if matters did not improve within a reasonable amount of time.

Unnerving was the lack of communication from the Underground Train Operator or any official explanation of what had just happened. And the smell of smoke lingered.

"First, we take care of what we know." John recommended and received approving nods from the emergency personnel.

Addressing the other passengers, John held up his hand in a calming gesture. "If you feel you've been injured, speak up." Immediately, the nurses, paramedic, and doctor were examining the few who made complaints, ruling out broken bones, contusions, or concussions, working by mobile lights held by nearby passengers.

Except for being stationary in a Tube tunnel, surrounded by complete darkness and the faint scent of smoke, everyone was in good shape.

Whilst the elderly lady who had been trembling, identified as Mrs. Sally Hughes, was not hurt, John could see she required more assurances. "Mrs. Hughes, would you do me this one favor?" Crouching before her he maintained eye contact, her chocolate brown irises were watery pools of tears about to spill. "You see, my wife…my wife…"

**_Suddenly, his heart clutched when he thought about Mary and their unborn child._**

"..is...is pregnant, due any day now, and I picked up these for our baby." He quashed all emotions and continued without revealing personal sentiments. Instead, he showed the older woman the contents of the shopping bag. "Since, I'm a little busy now…would you hold them for me? Til I get back, you know? I don't want to misplace them whilst I working. My Mary would be upset if I lost them." He winked.

"Of course, young man!" Mrs. Hughes' lips stopped trembling. She glanced at the contents again. "But what's your name, dearie? So I can return them to you."

**_For an inexplicable moment, he imagined Mrs. Hudson serving a cuppa with biscuits._**

"John Watson!" He greeted her with a warm smile, gently shook her hand, and patted her on the knee as he rose. "Dr. John Watson. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

Turning away, however, his smile receded and face tightened with concern. The air was hazy and the persistent smell of smoke, slight but evident, was not something they could ignore.

As if reading John's face, the retained firefighter Dan confided quietly, "This smoke means fire and it may require immediate attention." The burly man beckoned the others over with a head motion and continued. "My training with Fire and Rescue Services included Underground Emergencies. I know that without power, I can't raise Control Centre and can't get immediate status updates or gain emergency controls. I want to check up ahead. Fortunately, these are _walk-through_ carriages. We're in the sixth carriage; in the fourth there's an extra link. Maybe, there's power up there."

"Why aren't we hearing anything from the Train Operator?" Sam kept his question confidential.

Dan and John exchanged worried looks. Dan shook his head. "Dunno, mate, may not be good up front, but one way or another, before we can evacuate, we need to locate a tunnel telephone to connect with the Line Controller and switch off the current if it isn't already off with the power outage."

"It's a plan. I'll come forward with you." John nodded, assured that the passengers in this car were not in any medical danger. "There may be more injured as we advance." Paramedic Sam agreed. So did RN Carol and RN Terri.

"We will need supplies…" Without information, John could only anticipate medical problems they might encounter and encouraged his team to consider survival skills. "See if anyone can spare some water bottles. Do people with insulin have enough for the duration…what about other meds? Is there anyone with extra supplies? How about food? Fruit or fruit juice maybe? Alcohol? We have to be prepared for both ordinary and extraordinary emergencies."

**_ '_****_One should always look for a possible alternative, and provide against it. Good, John! Your military and medical training are serving you well…' Out of nowhere, the doctor heard the familiar baritone. It surprised him how much comfort he derived from perceiving Sherlock's feedback_****_—_****_the positive as well as the negative._****_The link between them allowed for conversations, both real and imagined, that kept him centered. Knowing it was only in his mind didn't diminish its effectiveness._**

Not more than five minutes had elapsed from the moment John turned on his mobile light to acquiring a team of qualified helpmates, settling the passengers, and collecting 'emergency kits' for the unforeseen—besides the first-aid and emergency items including gloves and shears, he ordinarily kept supplied in his jacket pockets*, but time was their enemy. What lay ahead, who lay injured, what was burning, and when rescue might arrive were perplexing unknowns.

Turning to the remaining passengers, John feigned confidence he was beginning to lose. "Stay here, remain calm, and wait until Train Crews and Operators give you instructions!" Faintly the smoke hovered in the air, but breathing was not compromised. "We're moving up to check on the status, and certainly, we'll send back word once we know anything more." He paused and steadied his gaze on each face. "A bit of advice: some of you should preserve your mobile lights so all the batteries don't drain at once."

As he departed the carriage, his backward glance revealed mobiles winking off among resolved passengers sitting patiently. He could only hope he had done the right thing, and they were not lambs waiting for the slaughter.

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*Indebted to StillWaters1 for the brilliant idea that the civilian John Watson would carry medical supplies in his jacket pocket.

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AN: I feel this chapter is a bit slow, but so is the characters' understanding about what happened. Each successive chapters offers more insights. I hope you will continue to read them all the way through. As always your reviews are greatly appreciated and center me. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2 The Fifth Carriage: Collision

Chapter 2 The Fifth Carriage: Collision of Purpose

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"WHA'S GOIN' ON?"

A huge man in a navy peacoat barked with his arms gesturing threateningly, as he pressed against a slight built man in uniform who clutched the only light source in the carriage—the torchlight, held straight up, had planted a light circle on the ceiling. The smaller man blinked helplessly at the livid face that glowed manically in the torch beam, raged, and spewed spittle all over his eyeglasses.

It was more than obvious that the "Sixth-Carriage Team" had stepped into a swarm of frustrated passengers and crying children in the extremely overcrowded fifth carriage. The human throng seemed in constant flux. The tighter the space, restricting the "accepted" personal space of regular commuters, the faster the occupants became irritated.

Discernable within the buzz of voices, a woman's voice whined, "What happened to the lights? Why aren't we moving?"

"Mummy, Mummy, _please._ I want to go home!"

"It's too crowded already! Where's everyone coming from?

Move _please_, move! More coming in from the front!"

"Hang on! Stop pushing! What's the rush? I can't move much farther."

"Pardon! That is my foot you're on!"

"This is taking too long?" another gruff voice from a dark corner shouted.

"Get us out of here! Get us out of here! Get us out of here! Get us out of here! Get us out of here!" A hysterical whimper repeated in a sing-song cadence from the seated passengers in the shadows.

"Please, everyone." The uniformed man erratically swung his torch around the carriage, elbowing his nearby neighbors, and blasting the disgruntled with an unwelcomed beam. "Please, please, you must remain calm," but his reedy voice was ineffectual.

Whether or not it was their desired effect, John and his team drew the passengers' attention with their entrance. Warding off the mounting tension was their first priority.

"We are volunteers and medical professionals!" Waving his mobile light, John's authoritative declaration successfully quieted the raucous. "State your condition. Identify if you are hurt. Does anyone here have medical training?"

Whilst answers came from the crowd, Dan touched John's shoulder and leaned in closer. "Smoke's stronger…as I suspected. We need to get to the source…may need to rescue passengers... "

John understood his great urgency to advance further along. "That's the fourth carriage ahead. Go on. I'll meet you after I check these passengers."

"Slammed my head," a woman admitted to Carol who gently checked her skull. Several other passengers presented similar complaints; others rubbed elbows, arms, and ankles. Terri had already gone to the hysterical women, sitting in the back, to calm her down. The woman dissolved into sobs and clutched at Terri who rocked her soothingly.

As the team addressed passengers' immediate needs, John sized up the middle-aged man with the glasses and torch who also happened to be wearing a whistle.

**_'_****_A whistle? Why a whistle, Sherlock?' _**

**_'_****_You know my methods. Apply them_****_, John…!' _**

**_'_****_Hmmm. Uses it to communicate during an emergency— but doesn't have a radio—to call for help? Has to be someone not usually in authority. Someone not accustomed to dealing with people in crisis…. perhaps, works at a small company? His uniform suggests a guard, light duty, no gun, no badge… by appearances, his moment in the spotlight, literally, is due to his great misfortune of carrying the only torch during a power outage.'_**

"Not TfL are you?" John kept respect in his voice.

"Me? Oh, me? Transport For London? Ha, ha. No, no,no. Noooo. Umm." The man stammered and nervously flashed the torch beam into John's face. "Name's T-T-T-T-Toby Angles…security guard…for a canine emporium, ah, I mean Waggy's Dog School. Er…'Night Watchman,' if you will…supposed to be on duty…soon. I'm gonna be late!"

**_'_****_Fine deduction, John…! Although you missed the obvious: he lives with his aunt who has four cats….a ginger, a tabby, a long-haired white angora, and a problematic British Shorthair…which is why he excites the dogs with all that cat scent… was picking up ointment for his latest flair-up of eczema…missed the earlier train….'_**

"You are doing fine, Mr. Angles." John smiled kindly.

**_'_****_No, the truth is he's not!'_**

With an even broader grin, John raised his palms to block out the bright light and gently maneuvered the torch away from his face. "We can, however, use your light over here," he directed the flummoxed man toward an opening among commuters on the longitudinal seat, "as we examine these passengers. Oh yes! May I have your whistle…?.

**_'Excellent, John!_**** _ You DO observe, quite well in fact, despite your attempts to convince me otherwise._** **_Not really surprised. You have _****_remarkable characteristics and_** **_astuteness which surfaces consistently when the action turns dangerous...'_**

Pushing aside Sherlock's backhanded approval, albeit imagined, John told Toby, "…I may need it…" Immediately, the Night Watchman surrendered it willingly and tried to give over the torchlight as well. "No, you keep the torch. Stay here. You can be helpful with this."

John excused his way to the fore of the carriage, wedging himself through gaps in the crowd, but as he passed paramedic Sam taking a man's pulse, John overheard the seated passenger huff and groan quietly.

"My arm is throbbing."

With great trepidation, John eyed the heavy-set man who was breathing shallowly and holding his left arm. In John's mobile light, the passenger's pallor was gray and a patina of sweat covered his face.

"Sam," John leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "We need to know if he has a history of angina or other heart-related problems and whether he is carrying prescribed nitrates, such as nitroglycerin. If not, I'll check to see if I have any. You may have to do CPR…. And continue until help arrives. Okay with that?"

With complete understanding, Sam nodded.

"Hang on. I'll see if I can locate some relief who can be your backup. Just as a precaution, okay?" John clapped Sam on the shoulder. "And Sam, should rescue begin…have him be one of the first taken for treatment."

Before long, John had secured several more medically trained personnel from the fifth carriage's population who helped his original sixth-carriage team with the needy passengers. This left only one new paramedic—Jeffrey—to follow John into the fourth carriage.

Checking his mobile, John calculated that seventeen more minutes had elapsed since they entered the fifth. More disquieting: his battery icon was beginning to flash—low power.

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	3. Chapter 3: The Fourth Carriage Disaste

**_Chapter 3: _** The Fourth Carriage; Disaster on Rails

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The fourth carriage was in semidarkness, dangerously overcrowded, and smokier. It was nearly impossible to push through the wall of people, some of whom John could see, even in the dim light, had obvious injuries. John and Jeffrey had no place to go. Somehow, big Dan must have made his way through, but the sniffling and bemoaning passengers, coupled by sounds of hissing, made shouting his name a useless venture.

The only solution John could see was to have able-bodied people evacuate the fourth carriage into the already crammed fifth and the roomier sixth. "Come this way," John tapped the shoulders of the closest passengers huddled like frightened sheep. "Jeffrey, quickly tell the fifth and especially the sixth we need to relieve this overcrowding. Send as many passengers as far back as possible, but you must come back as soon as you can."

"Step lively, and follow that man," John urged the men, women, and children who had been paralyzed by panic as Jeffrey beckoned through the doorway. At the same time the doctor inquired if any had medical experience and encouraged those who could to remain and help "staff" first-aid stations in the fourth carriage. The crowd-relief began slowly at first, but the momentum built until John was advising people to "step slowly and be careful."

After much jockeying and jostling, approximately three hundred ambulatory passengers (far in excess of normal ridership for a carriage) migrated toward the two back cars. John suspected most of those who were capable of walking out were original passengers from the fourth carriage, possibly a few shaken but otherwise unharmed riders from the third and second. What about those in the first carriage?

Firefighter Dan was nowhere to be seen. There was no power in the fourth carriage, and mobile phones were still the most prevalent light source among well or injured passengers. Now, a full thirty minutes into the incident, regrettably, John's was losing power. Although he had been using his light sparingly, whenever there was other lights he turned off his mobile to preserve what was left.

As the occupancy of the fourth carriage thinned, John worked triage with three paramedic volunteers for the nearly thirty-five lingering passengers who presented with severe bruises and gashes, two with obvious broken bones, some bleeding about the nose and face, some who seemed dazed, others with smears of black soot on their faces and various contusions. As he quickly questioned each passenger, John learned many had been occupants who fled the second and first carriage. Whilst doing his best to comfort the distressed, he assigned low-priority cases to his volunteers and treated those who were in greatest need. Digging into the pockets of his jacket* for medical supplies was the first order for the doctor as he began to administer the injured, although from the looks of it, some of them would require more than what his "medical provisions" could handle….

**_'_****_Yes, Greg,' John once admitted to Lestrade over a pint they had shared early in the Holmes-Watson partnership. 'Sure, they can take the career soldier out of the army, but they can't take his training away. So, I keep medical supplies—legal for a doctor with my medical credentials—stocked in my pockets, you know, in case of emergencies…and with the world's only consulting detective charging through the battlefields of London…or just being the obnoxious git he often is to others, I feel it is my duty to be prepared.'_**

**_'_****_Hah! John!' Greg had snorted a laugh into his beer. 'Does your celebrated partner know?'_**

**_'_****_Huh? What doesn't he know about me? Uses my laptop…goes through my belongings, meager as they are. Knows no personal parameters. At least, doesn't respect mine. (Haven't told him my middle name. It's my last stronghold of privacy.) _****_He's certainly a clever fellow and certainly very conceited…conceited enough to have confidence that I would be prepared on his behalf. Indeed, I guess I am proving to be his ideal helpmate. Can't help myself. He needs it._****_'_**

**_That night, Greg had given him a long appreciative smile that spoke louder than words. Raising his beer, the DI saluted the doctor. 'You're a good man, John, and especially good for him. You give me hope.'_**

In the Tube carriage, Lestrade's hope was what John sorely needed to keep him going.

From his jacket pockets, John removed a small assortment of bandages, ointments, general analgesics, latex gloves, shears, and water bottles. When supplies were used up, he removed his jacket, keeping it within reach, and stripped the sleeves off his shirt for tourniquets to bandage bleeds that seemed to need steady pressure. After a while, he asked others nearby to lend scarves, hats, gloves, when he began to run out.

The door to the third carriage opened. Dan had his arm around an injured passenger and escorted her to a seat, followed by several others with minor injuries who limped toward places to rest. The firefighter's face was sooty, his eyes apprehensive. Quietly he informed John, "The two fore carriages are a little off tilt, but the lead carriage is drastically leaning. No one's left now in three or two, these are the last. But in the first carriage some are beyond help, others need immediate attention. Don't think they should be moved until you have a look. Fire's abating but the angle of the carriage is precarious."

Dan painted a clear picture in John's mind of the urgent landscape, but before he could reply, the fifth carriage door opened behind him.

Jeffrey arrived with good news and fresh faces—eight companions in reflective vests carrying gear, radios, and portable lights. "Help has arrived, Doc! Evacuation has begun out of the sixth carriage!" Jeffrey announced with tremendous relief in his voice, and turning to the officials following him, pointed to John. "Here's the doctor I was telling you about..."

The officials and engineers from Metronet, TfL, and emergency services assigned to assess the rescue tactics maintained neutral faces as they surveyed the disaster scene of the injured expertly being triaged by a slight built man, his shirt sleeves shredded. This "Doc, was kneeling on the floor beside a conscious woman patient, placing a knitted cap like a pillow under the her head.

"MERT?" The former army doctor spoke aloud before finally looking up. His brows knitted with concern. He knew immediately by the looks on their faces, this group was not any kind of medical emergency response team he had hoped would arrive along with the first wave of responders. "Jeffrey, come here. Pressure and hold." John slide across the floor to check the condition of another patient groaning nearby. "State your purpose. Are there any medical personnel among you?"

"Not yet. Safety Officers and Engineers…. Making risk assessment as we mobilize rescue operations." The person in charged shook his head almost regretfully. "As soon as our input to Silver Level Support is relayed to the Incident Commander…"

"Of course. _Safety comes first."_ John whispered under his breath. This was the drill in military operations. For the briefest of moments, the doctor closed his eyes, recalling the procedure: once safety had been secured, they were cleared to save lives. As the doctor on the team of nurses and paramedics, he would bring the "hospital" to the patient to speed up the survival rate of the casualties in Afghanistan….but that rescue action in the London Underground wasn't happening just yet.

In frustration, he reopened his eyes, and mustered his authoritative voice just short of pulling rank he no longer held. "I need a report. What the bloody hell happened?"

"Train derailment. One train. Looks like only the first three carriages, an explosion up front—cause unknown—must rule out the possibility that there might be more…" The official replied obediently. "The extent of damage to the tunnel structures, equipment, rails and power supply still to be determined…" he caught himself from saying. "Sir" aloud. "Second train on the rails ahead, wedged and blocking passage, but no injuries, just occupants who need to evacuate."

"Well there _ARE_ injuries here! Basic first aid is all I can do right now." John suppressed voicing the rest of his concern in the presence of the injured. He was working with inadequate supplies, providing only the most preliminary care, and was haunted with fear about the victims in the first carriage. "We need medical assistance from people who know how to give it and aid bags with medical supplies," John leaned back on his haunches wearily, "SO, whatever you need to assess, DO IT very quickly."

"Come on! Been up ahead." The firefighter's prior reconnaissance gave Dan the authority to lead the way with a speed John appreciated.

Six team members followed Dan into the foremost carriage, one went back to deal with the evacuees, whilst the last man ["Gary," he told John his name when asked] remained behind to set up lights and call in his location, requesting medical personnel and specific supplies enumerated by John. Accustomed to delivering an emergency department, including anesthetic room, to wounded soldiers in the field, John requested strong pain killers, and blood packs to initiate treatment, hoping surgical procedures wouldn't be necessary in the Tube tunnel.

"Anything else you need, Doc?"

"Time, Gary! How long will they take to get here?"

"Under three minutes."

"That will have to do…" Calculating the time until help arrived, John knew his charges in the fourth carriage were stable enough for him to proceed through to the first carriage. After John advised paramedic Jeffrey about the priority for care among the injured when medical help arrived, he grabbed for his jacket that he restocked with basic items from the Safety Team. "I can't wait for the them to come back—going forward. You and the others have this under control. Need to get into the casualty zone."

Jeffrey nodded. "Fine, Doc!"

"One more thing, Jeffrey. This whistle." John tugged the chain that hung around his neck. "Tell the medical teams when they arrive, I will be up ahead. It may be noisy, I don't know what to expect, but have them **LISTEN** for my whistle. This will be a STAT signal. Have them come fully equipped."

His heart racing in pace with his steps, the doctor passed through the two intervening tube carriages, thick with smoke and so dark, he couldn't see his hands or feet. Switching on his mobile light to prevent injuring himself, he realized both carriages had a peculiar twisted appearance. Skewed-angled floors made each foot step feel oddly out of rhythm, but John quickly adjusted. Not for the last time, he wished for his army pack equipped with night goggles, breathing masks, and army-issue medical pouch. At last, John's mobile light died entirely in carriage two, but not before he had confirmed both three and two were empty of passengers. For the last meter, he had to feel his way toward the front door.

**_ '_****_I know, John, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.' _**Sherlock's words entered his mind as John Watson slid open the door and passed—the gates of hell—into the first carriage.

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*Must credit StillWaters1 again for the brilliant idea that John, even as a civilian, would fill his jacket pockets with medical supplies.


	4. Chapter 4: Reaction in Finding

**Chapter 4 Reaction in Finding**

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'Bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life' was an inadequate description for the hellish spectacle John witnessed in the first carriage. An eerier red glow emanated from the glass windows in the carriage, and thick smoke filled the tube compartment. Up ahead at the Train Operator's booth, charred controls and a body serving as fuel for an electrical fire had finally been extinguished by the Safety Officers and Dan, all in protective gear and headlamps. It would not be long before they could inspect the tunnel, circulate better air into the tube carriages, and determine overall safety conditions.

With tearful eyes made worse by smoke, John viewed the horrific scene of badly blackened torsos, strewn like burnt effigies, limbs at odd angles, heads dropped downward on unsupported necks—human forms in inhuman-like poses—collapsed and huddled beneath seats or folded like rag dolls around the poles. The strong smell of burnt flesh informed John that no speedy rescue could have saved these victims. They were too close to the front-end fire. Two were children.

Emotionally detaching from the vision, the doctor knew they were beyond saving—corpses for recovery, not victims for rescue—so he turned away.

The smoke was choking. John covered his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, grabbed a torchlight from the Safety crew's gear bag, and crouched low where the air was breathable and where the nearly thirty injured passengers lay, in various states of consciousness, needing urgent help. The inclined floor had bunched them at the rear door, where some were moaning, others crying, and a few were completely unresponsive.

Having arrived at the casualty zone, Captain John H. Watson, MD, BAMF had entered his own zone—of extreme calm. In this place, the slow-motioned sensation gave him amazing clarity, and fortitude sharpened the edge of his inner steel to deal with every adversity. At one time in a past he could not forget, Captain Watson might have heard the sounds of blasts and whizzing artillery ring in his ears; yet he set aside concern for self and advanced courageously toward the wounded to affect rescue and save lives.

There were no shells, nor bullets to duck here, yet it still took a certain courage to try ministering to so many wounded, affect rescue, and save lives—single-handedly.

All action became swift reaction that synchronized with his medical understanding and healing hands. Under the guise of reassurances, he carefully touched the passengers to gain information about their injuries. Inquiries as banal as "How does this feel? Does it hurt now? Can you move it? Can you sit?" yielded answers more telling than the patients themselves realized. For those who were broken in some way, he reassured them with gentle but persuasive orders: "Lie still. Keep your arm like that. Rest your leg on this jacket. Please don't move, we'll take care of you. Okay?" It took minutes for the ex-army doctor to identify in his mind (and memorize for the medical team on their way) which passengers needed what and how quickly.

When the doctor, nurses, and paramedics from Medical Emergency Response units finally arrived with supplies and equipment, Captain John H. Watson, MD, BAMF moved into hyper-drive with his information and expertise. The Medical units saw the scope of injuries and recognized the accuracy of the army doctor's preliminary diagnoses, so they followed his orders with little dispute. Using his whistle to signal the teams when STAT was required, John's guidance was indispensable, his knowledge complete, his swiftness unmatched. In awe of his articulate thoroughness, the Rescue Medical teams, along with the volunteers, knew the army doctor's triage was time-saving and life-saving, allowing them to deliver appropriate and immediate care. The next challenge was the pains-taking process of extricating the wounded from the Tube carriages without doing them further harm.

"Doc." A paramedic called John over to reexamine a passenger who had just reached consciousness. During the doctor's earlier rounds, the man had been unconscious; suffering from blunt trauma with internal hemorrhaging, the Medical unit had not arrived in time to do any more than palliative care. Now awake, the man showed signs of shock, decrease mental function, and confusion, all indicators that hope was fading as well.

"What's your name?" John asked as he clasped the man's hand and felt his thready pulse.

The lean, middle-aged man, his face smeared with soot and grime, weakly grimaced and whispered. John leaned closer and put his ear to the man's lips.

"Alec…Rogers. Tell my wife…let her know…okay?" His dark eyes fluttered. His face winced.

"Okay, Alec. We will…stay with me…Are you in pain, Alec?"

"Ccccoooold."

Immediately, John removed his jacket and placed it over the prone figure on the floor. His shredded sleeves surprised the paramedic standing by, but the patient didn't take notice.

"Does this help, Alec?" John doubted it would change the body temperature of the dying man, but the gesture was the least he could do. Somewhere, among the gear bags, were orange blankets but there wasn't time to ask for one.

The edges of Alec's mouth twitched with a slight smile as if he knew the futility of it. His lips formed 'thank you' without wasting his last breaths on sound.

"Doc, over here!"

John turned toward the shout for assistance. "Alec. I'll be right back, okay?" John patted their clasped hands and loosened his grasp.

**_An image of a dying soldier_****_—_****_his name was Alec too—_****_inexplicably popped into mind. Years ago, in a tented operating theatre near the Afghan conflict, the army surgeon had made a sudden brotherly attachment with that wounded man. It was impossible to explain why, out of the thousands Captain _****_Watson had treated so routinely in Afghanistan, that this individual would have had such an effect. _**

**_It had been the same with Sherlock_****_—_****_a sudden brotherly attachment, impossible to explain._**

**_A pang of loss and remorse stabbed at John's heart. Kindness was the only medicine he could dispense now. To Afghan Alec, he had given a silver charm shaped like a flower that belonged to his own deceased mum. (Harry had the bracelet.) 'Keep this safe for me, Alec, so I don't lose it out here. I'll get it later.' He wanted Alec to cling to something that made him feel connected._**

"You keep this jacket for me, until later, okay Alec." The echoes of words from long ago served the same purpose in the Tube with First-Carriage Alec and Sixth-Carriage Sally, the keeper of the baby clothes. However, when he came back minutes later, Alec Rogers had passed on. His body, along with John's jacket, had already been taken away.

**_The silver charm shaped like a flower was forever in his wallet. His wallet was in the jacket…and who really knew if Sally Hughes would return the baby clothes? Oh, well._**

Even as rescue operations stabilized survivors, recovery removed the bodies efficiently by way of a speedier evacuation route to the surface, a route not shared with the live exodus of humanity that walked away from the calamity or needed to be carried by stretchers. The cruel irony was that the dead—fifteen in all by the end of the ordeal—"saw" the light of day out of the Underground before many of the living. With respect, they were laid in tidy rows behind yellow police tape for a meticulous identification process, but away from curious eyes.

The remaining injured were receiving expert care. Under John's guidance, the Medical Emergency team swiftly acquired the tempo of triage and treatment. After a while, they began to run smoothly with less oversight from John, but still consulted him for many decisions.

Accordingly after several hours, the Metronet officials approached John with formal thanks and an "order of dismissal" despite the roar of disproval from the Medical Emergency units, paramedics, and healthcare volunteers. Not only did they feel John's expertise was invaluable, they also felt his courageous service deserved more than an abrupt discharge. However, John knew he had assumed authority that was not his, and it was time to resign his "command." His work was done here. Hours ago, how many he did not know, he was just a passenger riding the Tube home with a shopping bag of baby clothes.

With one last glance as emergency crews rushed by, he enjoyed the luxury of standing still—something he hadn't done since it all began—and a rare sentiment overtook him. John Watson felt a great ache—not a physical body ache associated with tired muscles or weary bones. No. This was an ache from his soul.

**_'_****_You have missed this…Admit it!'_**

**_Yes, Sherlock, Yes, Mary. You are right that I am addicted to a certain kind of lifestyle, but maybe not the one you think. I have the soul of the soldier who misses the action; the soul of the army surgeon who misses the saving grace of healing under dangerous attack; the soul of the serviceman, invalidated home from Afghanistan, who misses being whole, being validated by the former life that had given me purpose and meaning_****_—_****_finding the broken and healing the broken. _**

As he looked sorrowfully upon the broken bodies transported by stretchers through and away from the Tube carriages, he knew both the feeling and the despair of being broken himself. It had made his reintroduction into civilian life untenable and lonely.

But the **_action in missing_** that which was lost became the **_reaction in finding_** new purpose.

He found his new purpose among the civilians who were broken like him, his equals in dysfunction, his dearest companions, who were invalidated from the normalcy of routine and an ordinary life. Sherlock must have seen in his best friend and Mary must have seen in her husband the one person who understood what it meant to be broken, but unlike anyone else, the one who could deliver a healer's touch.

**_Yes, Sherlock, my adopted brother, and Mary, my wife, mother of our child, I miss this life, but if I had not lost it, I would have missed finding you... _**

"Hey, Doc!" A paramedic interrupted his thoughts with a touch on his arm. "There's an elderly woman in carriage one. Her hip and leg are wedged and we're waiting for crews to dismantle the wall and component structure that is crushing it…'

"Yes. I remember her: Gladys Beddows. Trapped in the first carriage. We're afraid of multiple fractures. She doesn't want to lose her foot."

"Yeah! Right, Oh, hang on. You're supposed to be evacuating with the last of the passengers, right now, huh? But, maybe, before you go, the Medical unit wonders if you can give a consult?"

"Gladly, and your name is?"

"Thomas."

"Right! Fine, Thomas. Show me."

Transformed by the Rescue Operations lamps, the previously dark carriages were flooded in light. With great cordiality, Emergency Response Doctor Katherine Adamson greeted John at the threshold between the second and first carriages, to share the patient's status: The injured woman was nearing her eighties. Her vitals were good _(under the circumstances),_ her condition stable, but serious due to her age. She seemed mostly lucid, but they weren't sure if some of her ramblings might be dementia. There were no identifying medical tags on her person to give them more information. One could only assume—and this was dangerous— she didn't have other underlying conditions, such as diabetes, heart condition, osteoporosis, or neuropathy, often seen in the aged.

Nodding his understanding, John followed the doctor into the first carriage; still smoky, he observed, but a vast improvement from hours ago.

The status of the rescue operations crews to cut her free radioed in with an update. Unfortunately, more pressing emergencies had delayed their arrival.

As before, the carriage remained leaning, so maneuvering was tricky. With a torchlight in hand, John scrambled into position to lay beside the silver-haired lady lying on her stomach, covered by an orange blanket, and whose left hip and side were pinned under a collapsed side wall. Her foot was swallowed in the deepest shadows under the warped longitudinal seat.

"Hello Gladys. I'm John Watson. Dr. John Watson." He examined her face as she peered back. Her frightened eyes, a startling shade of sky blue, were groggy from the pain meds, but alert. "I just want to check things out, and pardon me, I may have to touch your leg at some point. Okay?"

Her eyes welled with tears, but she nodded her head. "I was a dancer, you know."

"A dancer? What kind?" he asked distractedly. His viewed of the injury and site confirmed what the others already believed. Without prompt attention, she would be lucky to keep her foot or her leg. The longer they waited, the greater the risks.

Standing up again and moving out of earshot, John softly conferred with the Medical unit. "Do what you can. THIS is the emergency. Get crews in here, or borrow equipment. She needs to be freed at once." Dr. Adamson agreed, thankful for his endorsement and asked an aid for the radio so she could speak directly to the authorities.

"Doc."

John turned. The paramedic beside Gladys beckoned with his head. "She's asking for you."

Her arm was raised up and vigorously waving. As John returned, he gently clutched her hand.

"tap." She said with a bright smile on her face.

"Pardon?" He leaned over.

"You asked me what kind of dancer. Tap dancer." She used her other hand to drum an impressive tap rhythm with spindly, arthritic fingers.

"Oh, nice. Very nice. That is quite good, actually. You know, I have a friend who's a good dancer…a very good dancer, not sure if he does tap..."

"Tell me about your friend."

"huh?"

She didn't repeat the question. Her lips quavered. Her face went dark when her smile faded. "Stay with me, please. I'm afraid. You remind me of my son who died in a car accident. I miss him. I know he's not here, but could you please, just for a little while. Give me the comfort I've so terribly missed. Here? Just for a little while." In dire need for human connection, she pleaded softly, her keen eyes surpassing the effectiveness of words

Maybe not so impossible to explain was the doctor suddenly feeling he couldn't leave her.

Taken aback, John thought for a moment and looked up at the team of paramedics, medical staff and volunteers who had become an audience to this private moment. He raised his brows, letting his expression ask the question.

Every head nodded affirmative, granting him permission.

"I promise, Gladys" He knelt beside her and readjusted his grip on her hand. "I'll stay with you until we can get your out of here."

"This could take hours," Someone warned with a whisper in his ear. "I've got all night." He whispered back.

"Tell me about your friend who dances…" Gladys asked.

Dr. John Watson, of late, the official blogger of the World Famous Sherlock Holmes, had to smile. "That won't be hard," he said. "It's what I do."

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Your reviews welcomed with immense gratitude. Thank you again for reading my fics!


	5. Chapter 5: Found

_This last chapter unifies and completes the storylines of both MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING, as it, in fact, picks up from the last chapter of MISSING IN ACTION. _

_As always, your reviews fuel my creativity. I cannot do this without you in mind, so please share what you think. _

**_ACTION In MISSING_**

**_Chapter 5_**

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"John?"

_"__John!"_

Why did the coaxing sound of his name seem both muffled and resonant? Like he was wearing his stethoscope for auscultation?

_Sherlock? _

Dreaming, John Watson blinked awake to the familiar voice.

_Where am I_?

Enfolded in the arms of the consulting detective, the weary doctor's head had slumped against the chest of his friend, his cheek brushing the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

It took him a moment to remember how he got there…

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The last three injured passengers from the Underground derailment required the most critical care before they could be moved. Two women with suspected neck injuries were secured on boards by paramedic teams, but the last, Gladys Beddows, remained trapped.

With permission granted by the officials, John was allowed to keep his promise. It did not matter that he was just a surrogate for her lost son. He didn't care. It was the right thing to do, and he wanted to do it.

He stayed beside her on the floor, observing the rescue efforts from the ground—armies of booted feet quickly stepping past in what seemed like organized chaos—but he reserved his attentions mostly to the elderly lady whose trembling hand he patted soothingly.

"Are you still in pain?" John had checked to ensure that her medical team kept the dose balanced between managing her acute pain and keeping her responsive. Bruising was evident on her calf, but her ankle and foot were out of view under the collapsed seat.

"N' more. Can't feel my foot_.._. What if …?" she couldn't finish. Her eyes were swimming in tears, her lower lip quivering in fear. She was doing her best not to sob uncontrollably.

"Ahhhh, Gladys, I know it's unbelievably frightening right now," he whispered gently. "You have been amazing so far. Just a little more now, okay? First, we get you out of here, huh? Then the doctors will have a look at hospital. I have seen good medicine work miracles, so don't lose heart just yet, okay?"

In sympathy, real tears clouded his own eyes, which he wiped on a frayed sleeve. What an enigma he was. Whilst as a professional, Dr. Watson knew how to connect on an emotional level when his patients needed it, yet as John Watson, he struggled with expressing his personal feelings especially with those he loved the most. "So tell me a little more about yourself. We might as well get acquainted proper."

When her energy allowed, she chatted about her family, good memories about her son, but mostly about her youth and her budding career as a dancer. When she tired, she dozed restfully, without grimaces twitching her faded cheeks—a good sign that her medication was appropriate for her pain levels.

As he lay there quietly beside his sleeping patient, snippets of memory conjured vivid recollections from his own life: first as a surgeon saving lives. He missed this—his adrenaline spikes, sharpening his medical skills to perform heroic deeds under attack. Trained as an army doctor at St. Bart's and signed on with the _Fifth __Northumberland Fusiliers_, he had worked very hard to become a man of worth, a respected Captain. At the height of his shining army career, golden boy Dr. John Watson was defined by his accomplishments, by his sterling record, by the brotherhood of soldiers with whom he formed friendships quickly and to whom he had committed his LIFE in service.

It all ended in one defining moment that brought him low, figuratively and literally. In a pool of his own blood, he lay upon the ground, fire lancing through his shoulder, darkness shutting off the glaring sun.

After many months of rehabilitation and final invalidation, the army doctor discovered his greatest losses—his worth, his confidence, his friends, all gone with the career he called LIFE. Instead, a civilian now, he remained in the muted shadows as a "nobody," discarded, worthless and "unattached," Without a LIFE and no longer "the kind to make friends easily" _(as Mycroft had observed at their first meeting). _He was "feeling so alone."

Gladys woke again from a short nap. "Oh…yes. I enjoyed Irish step dancing..." her voice wavered with exhaustion, but she resumed the conversation exactly where it had left off, to John's amazement. "Branched into English Lancashire Clog dancing," she sighed, "but it was scandalous of me—a woman—to want to do tap—it was mostly for men!" Her pale blue eyes grew distant as she searched her memories. "My family misunderstood. The English style of tap…so light and elegant, is more classical!" Eyelids, like crepe paper, closed again as she managed a weak smile. "My family objected. But I mastered it anyway…and I was _damn_ good."

John chuckled, admiring her strong spirit and sharp mind. She would need both for recovery.

"Your turn." She nodded drowsily at John. "More about… _your_ dancer friend."

"Oh…right! Before the wedding, we tried to keep the dancing lessons secret to surprise my fiancée, who is now my wife, Mary. It was really exceptionally decent of him to give me ballroom lessons…" John trailed off. Gladys was asleep again.

In the privacy of his thoughts, John recalled with regret that, once again, he failed to speak his thanks aloud. Sherlock had shown great patience in teaching him, offering criticism tempered with praise and encouragement. Devoid of snide utterances or derogatory remarks, the consulting detective was a different man as a dance instructor. They practiced graceful steps, correct posture and hold, so John could lead his bride during their wedding day dance with confidence. More touching, Sherlock composed a unique work for the violin, which he played in their honor: the man had a heart as extraordinary as his mind, despite his own claims to the contrary!

At last, the emergency teams arrived to cut the pinned woman from the wreckage. John gently rubbed Gladys' hand, waking her enough to observe her alertness, and assuring her the work would be quick. It was! As soon she was freed, the paramedics immediately stabilized her, prepping her damaged limb and crushed hip for transport out and away for urgent medical care. The pace was hectic, yet their action cautious, and John followed resolutely, whenever possible keeping her hand clasped in his, as they found their way to the surface and an awaiting gurney.

Night had descended with a foggy chill, but bright lamps created a direct runway for passage of the last casualties to the ready ambulances.

During one brief pause, John removed the whistle from his neck, coiled it into a ball along with its string, and placed it in the woman's hand. "Do me a favor, Gladys dear." He folded her fist closed. "Hold this for me. I don't need it anymore, and I will probably lose it. You can give it back when I visit you in hospital. It actually doesn't even belong to me. So you will be helping me get it back to its rightful owner."

"God love you, so like my good son. God rest his soul." Her eyelids flitted closed as the IV painkillers kicked in once again. Her words were soft and dreamlike. "You will come back… to me?"

"Of course! Of course I will." John couldn't help but feel he was speaking on behalf of her son with his answer. "Okay! Ready, now? It's our turn—Go!"

A sudden uproar of cheers, hollers, and applause accompanied the paramedics, patient, and doctor as they raced toward the ambulance. Metronet teams, Met officials, volunteers, and first responders shouted with tremendous relief as the last victim, rescued from the derailment site, headed away.

Sprinting along with the gurney, John kept his grip firmly around the boney hand, although Gladys had fallen asleep before they reached the open doors of the ambulance. Once they loaded her in, there were no words of goodbye, except the paramedics shouting "thanks, Doc." He was left standing alone, the connection finally broken, the chill of the winter night immediately creeping into his weary limbs.

Then he heard his name in that unmistakable voice, spoken in a way he had never heard before.

"JOHN!"

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"John!" It was an echo from a recent memory.

"John, are you alright?"

"Hmmmm? Fine." He had been asleep on his feet. Just for a moment, the comfort and safety of his friend's hug worked like a sedative. John blinked again trying to get his bearings, aware now that he was draped in Sherlock's long coat, covered by another blanket, and held up by his tall friend.

"Sorry." He mumbled with some embarrassment, trying to break away.

"Don't be." The baritone voice gently broke with a soft cough, cloaking the emotional register, followed by a distinctive clearing of the throat, then Sherlock steadied John on his feet before letting him stand free.

"**_Normally NOT _**disposed to cat napping in people's arms…standing up… **_and _**in public. Ask Mary. " John massaged his head in bewilderment, disheveling his close-cropped hair. Wispy blond spikes stood on end. "But then again, as you're so fond of telling me, guess I'm NOT normal."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with amusement, but he forced control over his emotions to remark impassively, "There is no need for apologies. You are worn out, and I am not. You need rest. I rarely do. You have at last surfaced…after the hours I spent here wondering where you were, but it is precisely why I am here,—for you. It's simple logic."

"Reason or no, napping in any man's arms is just as like to rekindle _idle gossip_ and _dinner conversation_ … especially when it comes to us. Here! Take this before we get into trouble. I'll keep your scarf." John quipped in half jest, removing Sherlock's coat from his own shoulders and trading it for the blanket Sherlock had been wearing instead. Doubling up both blankets, even with the scarf, might not be enough against the chill, but John expected they wouldn't be lingering much longer. _Maybe I could locate my jacket?_

As he looked at his Belstaff with uncertainty before slipping it on, the consulting detective leveled his voice in dead seriousness. "Does it matter? People will always believe what they want, even when the facts prove otherwise."

"What are the facts?" John raised his eyebrows, curious. Sherlock was not sporting with him.

Turning up his collar against the cold, Sherlock hesitated and swiftly dropped his gaze. "You are my one and only Dr. John H. Watson. No one and nothing will change that."

When he slowly lifted his eyes again, John's face was blushing, his smile elated, his deep blue eyes staring back at Sherlock with wonder.

Each had been rendered speechless.

Stunned, John focused on his friend's face. In the harsh emergency lights, John could see the familiar ice blue eyes, the set of the full lips, high cheekbones, fair skin made paler by raven curls that framed the thin face. From such a description, an NSY artist might translate a likeness in a recognizable rendering, but it would not have captured what John actual saw.

_Too often, Sherlock, you have chided me, __**'**_**You can see everything, John, but you fail to reason from what you see. Don't be hurt, you know that I am quite impersonal. No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But clearly you have missed some vital points…'**

Clearly John did not miss the vital points in Sherlock's countenance. For a third time since John's return from the Underground that evening, the consulting detective had ceased to be a reasoning machine and betrayed his capacity for human love. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which would customarily turn away with disdain from any expressions of commitment, fidelity, and abiding affection—and yes, love—("Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.") was revealing such depth of feeling.

At last, John saw the unmistakable proof of Sherlock's humanity which he had always believed existed, ever since Sherlock gave him the first inkling in the dawning of their partnership:

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**'****So! Didn't take me long, John, to decide... about YOU.'**

**Working surveillance that was incredibly tedious, at least to John, they were sitting in complete darkness at 2:30 a.m, sipping tepid coffee in paper cups, purchased hours before from the local bistro. The room they booked in the inn, 'coincidentally' overlooking the client's home, had two beds, and one in particular was calling John's name. However, Sherlock was on a CASE and didn't permit sleep. The moonless night would make any lights from the house immediately obvious****—****as long as they remained in the dark as well****—****and then the game would be on. Jittery with excitement in anticipation of final proof, substantiating his magnificent deduction that would seal the case, Sherlock, of course, had no trouble staying alert and paced the floor. John, on the other hand, was constantly nodding off in a nearby armchair.**

**Again the rhythmic breaths of sleep arose from John, prompting Sherlock's impatience. With his statement, that seemed to come from nowhere, the consulting detective deliberately threw the 'weary dog' an interesting bone to chew. **

**'****Huh? What?' John snorted and shook his head.**

**'****I said, it didn't take me long to decide.' **

**Their words floated in the darkness, mere sounds had to substitute for all lack of visual cues. **

**'****Decide? About me, did you say? How's that?'**

**'****You were there in the lab at St. Bart's, John, when I asked Mike Stamford to borrow his phone. He declined with an excuse…****_not the truth_****, mind you. You****—****a perfect stranger—offered ****your phone. Most people wouldn't have. Why did you give me your phone?'**

**'****Because you needed it?'**

**'****Do you always lend your phone to people?**

**'****Guess so. Dunno. If they need it. Well, depends on who they are.'**

**'****But in this case, you didn't know who I was.'**

**'****Right, true. But Mike knew you.'**

**'****But****_ you_**** didn't know me. Did you trust Mike's judgment? He didn't think I was worthy enough to have his phone.'**

**'****Well, Mike had suggested I meet you…we talked about sharing a flat—as you were looking and had just mentioned it to him that very day.'**

**'****So you lent me your phone on the possibility that I might be your flatmate?'**

**'****You're overthinking this, Sherlock.'**

**'****It's what I do.'**

**'****Primarily, I lent you the phone because you asked.' John yawned and stretched. 'Maybe, I lent you the phone because, on a subconscious level, I was making a gesture of goodwill…and perhaps, it was also a test, if we were going to be flatmates…to observe your reaction. You were polite and thankful. Y'see, first impressions are not always correct.'**

**'****A-Hah!'**

**'****Ahah, what?'**

**'****That's what I thought…you WERE observing me…without realizing it, but you were using your faculties to make a judgment call about a perfect stranger you had never before seen. Good for you, John. And you were a good judge of character, insightful**!'

**'****I just said I got the wrong impression… about you being polite.'**

**'****But beyond that, you instantly knew you could work with me.'**

**Blinking, John still couldn't see much, but it helped clear his thoughts. 'Don't think I knew...maybe felt, maybe hoped.'**

**'****What most people attribute to instinct and feelings is really their minds deducing facts.'**

**'****You think so?'**

**'****Obvious, isn't it? Your motives weren't strictly kindness. They were part practicality, too! When did you finally decide in my favor?'**

** '****Who says I've made that decision?'**

**'****No. really. When did you decide I passed your test?'**

**'****Again, you ASSUME you've passed my test.'**

**John sensed that if they could see each other, Sherlock would be giving him one of his stern looks. The consulting detective's words proved John had deduced correctly.**

**'****You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, John, against which I must learn to guard myself.'**

**Chuckling heartily, John savored his amusement with additional sighs and snickers. There was an echo of laughter, softer, from Sherlock. **

**'****Okay,' the doctor finally relented. 'When did you pass my test…? Hmmm. Well, that's harder to say.'**

**'****Why?'**

**'****So much happened from the moment you asked if I had been in Afghanistan or Iraq...your deductions about me, your invitation to work the case…our ridiculous taxicab chase…you made me laugh so hard, and my laughing made you laugh…little things. Little things began to add up to bigger things. I thought you were extraordinary in what you do, but you were so arrogant and obnoxious to everyone. People kept warning me to stay away. The more they pushed, the more stubborn I became. The fact that you were aware of everyone else's bad opinions about you, and that you didn't care one wit—everyone was an idiot— intrigued me. More amazing, you kept asking me for my opinions, even though I was just as much an idiot as everyone else, but you seemed to care about them. Or at least listen to them.'**

**'****So you accumulated data to deduce you opinion… about me.'**

**'****In the normal way. It takes time. It couldn't be instant like you do it. I haven't always been correct when I make quick decisions, but I have learned that observations do help a person get to know another better and even come to care…'**

**'****Usually don't let my observations result in caring.'**

**'****Usually?'**

**'****Never mind. And what was your opinion?'**

**'****I realized you needed help. ****_My_**** help. You said it yourself, you couldn't work with Anderson. You asked me. But there was more. You needed someone who could guide your through the maze of contradictions of human nature…because you didn't get it. As brilliant as you were, you were an idiot, and friendless, just like me.'**

**'****Hmmm. So when you realized I was an idiot you decided in my favor?'**

**'****When I realized you were an idiot****_ because_**** you didn't have a friend, that's when I decided…and because, when I called you an idiot, you liked it and laughed. We laughed together. We were on even ground. You understood me. I was beginning to understand you. We could be friends.' **

**Sherlock inhaled, but said nothing.**

**'****Now, it's my turn. When did I pass your test?'**

**'****There were many tests, John. Some you didn't pass...'**

**'****Right, then. Okay…but the first time? When was that?**

**'****You passed with "Er, here. Use mine.'" **

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An extraordinary insight, like a shiver along his spine, rippled through John Watson as he recalled the strange conversation they had years ago. They had made great progress since then. Never dreaming his expectations about Sherlock could be surpassed, John needed to acknowledge this stunning truth as he stood opposite his best friend—reading him.

"Sherlock," John searched for the right words. "I…I can't thank you enough… for giving me tonight…something I've never had before—even when I returned from the service —a brother to welcome me home…"

"It's okay, John." Deeply touched, Sherlock was immensely pleased that John perceived Sherlock's own self-discovery from earlier that night, and rewarded his dear 'brother' with an affectionate smile. "Welcome home. Oh, yes! Hang on!"

With running strides, Sherlock crossed the distance toward an official seated at a table. Wildly gesturing arms and a steady finger pointing toward John looked peculiar from the distance. Sherlock seemed to be tap dancing his way through a conversation in a magnificent display of conviction and purpose. Several others were pulled into the discussion. Nods were exchanged, a box was retrieved, and Sherlock picked through its contents. When the official ticked off his clipboard, Sherlock came bounding back, with something in hand.

"Here. Your jacket. And wallet. Please, don't lose this again." His sideward glance could not hide his smile of extreme satisfaction. "Now, let's get you home…to Mary."

It took longer than usual for John to suppress his private smile and grateful heart behind a straight face. Once in the taxicab, pleasantries visited the light sleep that quickly overtook the weary doctor. _This is all so perfect. Hmmm. So perfect. Too perfect!_ A dark thought undercut his happiness with sudden worry and woke him with a start.

_This can't last! Happiness never does!_


	6. Chapter 6

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A.N. For a fanfiction "exploring what poor Mary was going through as she waited for word," check out TOO MUCH TO ASK. Keeping within the BBC backstory of Mary M. Watson, TOO MUCH TO ASK is a companion piece to MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING. Special thanks to englishtutor for suggesting it.

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